Confessions of a Toy Soldier
by RavensGame
Summary: The backstory of the Toy Soldier, you know, the one that saved the world. Oh, the Winchesters are in it, too. And some guy named Chuck...
1. Chapter 1

**AN:**

**So, I really didn't think I would get this up today, but my best friend in the whole entire world, Sand_AllyMayhem beta'd this part of it last night, in person (yes, I am insanely lucky, my best friend lives only two blocks away!)**

**Short Chapter, flashing back and forth from the days immediately following the first time the Winchester boys encountered the Striga to the finals moments of Season One through some linear moments in Season Two. The Story of how a plastic soldier saved the world!**

**Anywho, if it doesn't make a lots of sense yet, I'm sorry. It should shape up nicely with a few more chapters. That's one of these reasons Sand_AllyMayhem checked it over for me. She knows the entire storyline, and swears I'm not crazy.**

**As Always**

_**EverReader**_

**PS, this will be a four or five shot, I think, and feel free to check out my other current project, The Samulet Confessions, which should only be one chapter away from completion.**

**PPS-interested in sending a prompt? PM me, tag it Salt & Burn Confessions.**

Disclaimer: Still not my sandbox

**Confessions of a Toy Soldier**

_September 1989_

Six-year old Sam Winchester sat on the swings at the church playground. He was bored and hot and he didn't want to swing anymore but he had promised Dean he wouldn't move from _this spot _where Dean could see him as he worked on the old bicycle Pastor Jim had found in the church garage.

And that was a problem.

Not the bike. The bike was cool. Sam had been itching to learn to ride a bike, felt stupid that all the other kids in his first grade class knew how to ride a bike when he didn't. He could shoot a BB gun (remember not to talk about this in school, Sam) tie and untie twelve different kinds of knots with his eyes closed (his Dad came up with weird games) and he could even say the entire Lords Prayer (in _Latin, _and they didn't even go to church unless they were staying with Pastor Jim.)

But he'd never had a chance to learn to ride a bike, with or without training wheels. Dean's eyes had lit up when when Pastor Jim had rolled the old rusty bike out of the dusty garage.

"Awesome!" He'd crowed with glee, running his hands up and down the slightly bent frame. "Gonna fix this up for you, Sammy. Be just like new! Your own bike, how about that?".

Dean had quickly made the project his own, waving off any offers of help from Pastor Jim, or Chuck, the Church's old groundskeeper. He'd kept talking about how he was gonna make it the best bike ever.

Which was why Sam was now sitting in the late afternoon sun, idly kicking his feet back and forth on the church's swing set, pondering his Dean problem.

Because, however awesome a bike would be, Sam knew the truth.

Something was wrong with Dean.

Sam studied his brother as he continued to work on Sam's new bike in the shade of the garage. He was completely engrossed in the project, when he wasn't watching Sam's every move like a hawk.

It was beginning to frighten Sam a little.

_April, 2005_

Dean lay in the back seat of the Impala, struggling for every shallow breath. Through pain and panic, one thought pushed through.

Sam hadn't taken the shot.

He'd been so scared, so _sure, _that Sam would take the shot. Hadn't their entire childhoods been spent chasing the Yellow-Eyed Demon? Hadn't they sacrificed everything, their mother, Jess, every tiny shred of normality, of hope and happiness and safety?

So he'd known, even as he called out to his brother, his voice so weak he could barely hear himself. He'd known that this would end, here and now, that Sam would end it. Sam would pull the trigger, for this first time in his life, he would follow their father's order without question. He would pull the trigger and end the demon.

And their father along with it.

But Sam hadn't taken the shot. Dean had never been so grateful for anything in his whole entire life.

Weakly, he attempted to sit up. He could hear Sam and Dad in the front seat, but their voices sounded muffled, much farther away then they should. As if the front seat of the Impala was another country, and Dean was on an airplane flying in the opposite direction.

"Not everything, Sir." He could barely make out Sam's words, but the tone alerted him, woke up the sluggish big brother instincts drowning in the haze and pain in his head.

Sam and Dad were fighting again. 'Was someone hurt? Was Sam hurt?' Dean wondered, thoughts flitting around his head like drunken fire flies. The Impala hit a pothole, and the shooting pain in his sternum brought Dean back to himself. _He _was the one who was hurt. He tried vainly to sit up, hands scrabbling for purchase. Suddenly his hand closed around something wedged into the ashtray of the door.

"_It'll keep us safe when we sleep Dean._" Sam's six year old voice floated through his mind as he gazed down in bemused surprise at the old plastic soldier in his hand. He hadn't meant to pull it out. He'd promised Sam he'd leave it there, under the window, though he'd never completely understood his then six-year old brother's logic. Dean had sworn he'd leave it there, so he had.

Sam had said it was there to watch out for them.

To keep them safe.

'Hope it still works', Dean thought as everything faded to black.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N**

**And Chapter Two of Confessions of a Toy Soldier up and running. This story looks to be four part also. Hope the flash backs are continuing to make sense.**

**Reviews are Love.**

**As Always,**

**EverReader**

**PS- The Samulet Confessions are now complete, feel free to check them out via my profile if you haven't yet.**

**PPS- My kick-ass writing playlist this week contains Bullet Train (Stephen Swartz), World on Fire (Les Friction), Cool Kids (Echosmith) and 300 Violin Orchestra (Jorge Quintero). Just Fyi, if you need some new tunes, lol.**

**Disclaimer: Not my sandbox.**

**Confession's of a Toy Soldier- Chapter Two**

**September 1989**

A week ago, Dean had been completely normal. At least, normal for Dean. He made Sam's food, helped Sam with his shower. He watched cartoons with Sam.

But he did it like, well, Dean.

He complained about Sam's choice of cartoons. Ragged on Sam for using too much hot water. Complained if Sam wanted the last bowl of cereal.

In short, he acted like Sam's big brother.

But a few days ago, everything had changed. Sam had awoken in the middle of the night, head throbbing, throat sore, and scared to death for some reason he couldn't quite remember, no matter how hard he tried. Dean had been standing in front of his bed, looking frightened. Freezing air was drifting in the open window. Dad was clutching Sam to his chest, as if his fearless father had actually been scared of something.

But no one would tell Sam anything. Dad had bundled them out the door, Sam crying weakly in Dean's arms in the backseat of the impala. Dean was shaking, from cold or fear, Sam hadn't been able to tell.

He'd woken up with a mild cough and slight fever in the bedroom he and Dean shared when they were visiting Pastor Jim.

Dad was gone already. And Dean was asleep in a chair in front of the window, keeping watch like one of Sam's little green army men.

Ever since then, Dean had been acting...different.

He'd check Sam's temperature a half a dozen times a day. Every time Sam turned around, Dean was offering Sam something. Another bowl of cereal, another glass of water, more baby aspirin. He'd let Sam have the first shower. He'd let Sam pick the cartoons. And now he was building Sam a _bike._

The entire week Dean hadn't let Sam get more than a dozen feet away. He hadn't let Sam out of his _sight_.

And yeah, Dean always kept an eye on Sam. He walked him back and forth to school. He took him to the park. He tucked him in at night. One of Sam's earliest memories was of his father leaving, tossing the words "Dean, keep an eye on Sammy",over his shoulders as he disappeared into night.

But this was..._different. _

Dean had never kept such a tight leash on Sam before. He'd never refused to leave Sam at the Church with Pastor Jim while he ran out to the corner store for a candy bar. He'd never refused to let Sam swing on his own while Dean played cards with the other older boys after school. He had certainly never growled at Pastor Jim before, simply for suggesting that Jim enroll Sam at the little kindergarten down the road.

Dean had taken one look a the place. Just one. That's all it had taken for Dean to realize that the sunny little building, with it's yellow shutters and slide and sandbox housed nothing but Kindergarteners, meaning that Dean would be in a separate school from Sam. And Dean had practically hissed the word "no" at Pastor Jim.

Sam had been disappointed. The little yellow school had looked nice, open and inviting. Sam really liked going to school. Dean knew how much Sam liked school, and until now had always seemed a little relieved when he had been able to drop Sam off at the door to his class.

No one would explain anything to Sam. But Sam was used to people keeping secrets from him. He knew that the gun Dean practiced with wasn't just a BB gun like Sam's. He knew how much trouble Dean got in if he didn't keep the salt lines intact in front of the doors and windows.

Sam also knew that Dean wasn't sleeping very much. Dean was laying not one, but two salt lines down in front of the window of their bedroom every night. He kept falling asleep in the chair he'd sat in front of their bedroom window, as if he were waiting for something. Whenever Pastor Jim could finally coax a reluctant Dean into bed, he insisted on laying in Sam's bed with him, instead of his own. Sam had woken up more than one night in the past week squished between Dean's body and the wall, nearly suffocated by the blankets his brother insisted on piling on top of him even in his sleep.

Last night he had been so hot he'd crawled out of bed, sliding carefully down off the foot of the bed so as to not wake his brother. He'd wandered over to the window, looking curiously out at the full moon. He was careful not to disturb the salt, but from experience he knew the old church window had a draft if you stood close enough.

He'd stood there for a few moments, enjoying the cool air on his skin.

Suddenly Dean had jerked awake, hollering Sam's name like Sam had wandered away from him in a crowded mall at Christmas. Sam had been so startled he'd been unable to speak at first. Dean's eyes had searched the room frantically, widening dramatically when they settled on Sam standing so close to the window.

Dean had lunged out of the bed, grasping Sam by the shoulders and shaking him, shouting at Sam.

"Don't you ever do that, Sammy, you hear me, you stay away from the window, it's not safe!" Sam had started crying, frighted by his brother's fear. The bedroom lights had come on then, illuminating a sleep tousled Pastor Jim, holding a gun that had looked much more like Dean's real gun than Sam's BB gun.

Eventually Pastor Jim had settled Sam down, though Dean was still so tense and tight that Sam imagined he could feel him vibrating.

That was when Sam started to consider the possibility that something bad really was outside of their bedroom window.

Maybe it was a monster.

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural **

**April 2005**

The Impala looked as if it had gone ten rounds with a monster and lost.

The frame was totaled, twisted into obscene shapes like a tormented, wounded animal. Sam pushed down his nausea, pushed down the tears that wanted to fall at the sight of his only remaining home destroyed like so much garbage.

"Dean is gonna be so pissed." He finally managed, forcing his feet forward. He listened with half a mind as Bobby started listing the numerous problems facing them.

Sam didn't care. Didn't care about how bad it was, didn't care about how much work it would take. He just didn't care. He was alive, Dad was alive.

Dean was alive, and Sam didn't give a fuck about anything the Doctors had to say about that either.

Dean _would_ get better, and when he did, he would want his car. He'd whimper, and moan, and maybe cry at the sight of her. He'd make a fuss and demand sympathy and pie and beer as he worked on her. That was just fine with Sam. Sam would gladly bring Dean all the pie in the world if he would just open his damn eyes.

He shook his head in disgust at the sight of his battered laptop. It was a blow to be sure. They'd needed it for research, he'd have to pick up a new one right away. They'd need a lot of supplies sooner rather than later, if the Impala was any indication.

Thinking of supplies reminded Sam of the list his father had made, and he gave it over to Bobby. Half his mind was already back at the hospital, with Dean, when he saw the look on Bobby's face.

Before Bobby had even said anything truly damning, Sam knew.

He just knew.

The complete and utter sense of betrayal surprised him in it's intensity, and he felt himself sliding to the ground to avoid falling. The sun was suddenly too hot, the Impala was a thousand-plus degrees behind him, pouring heat through his jacket. The entire world was spinning and he felt like he was now the one being twisted into different shapes.

"Damn him. Damn him, damn him, damn him to hell!' He yelled, voice muffled by the knees he instinctively pulled up to his chest. He ignored the hundreds of aches and pains, the knee the Doctor had advised him against using, the more than half a dozen stitches spread out over his body; various small wounds accumulated over the past few days.

"Sam? You okay boy?" He could hear Bobby's anxious voice in the distance, but he had trouble focusing on it over the roar in his head and the shaking in his limbs.

Every part of him hurt. His while life was in ashes, his brother was dying, and his father was summoning the demon responsible for all of it.

Sam had never been so angry before. Never been so angry he actually frightened himself. He felt dangerous. He felt like if he so much as moved the wrong way, he'd come back to himself hours later only to find he had ripped the world to shreds with his own bare hands.

"I just need a minute, Bobby." He managed finally. He could feel Bobby hovering uncertain, a well meaning shadow that eventually faded, however reluctantly.

He missed Dean. His strong, indestructible big brother, who would never leave Sam to face something like this alone.

At least, not willingly.

But Dean was as broken as the Impala, as broken as Sam's entire life, and Sam didn't know how to fix it all on his own. He wanted to scream and cry and hurt something. He wanted to world to apologize. He wanted things to be made right.

He wanted his mom, and Jess, and _Dean_.

His father was obviously off his rocker. He brother was dying, _dying_ and this time Sam had no idea how to fix it. Any of it. He was out of options and out of ideas and out of time.

He was all alone.

His hand closed on something laying in the dirt beside the Impala. He looked down at the small, plastic, green object.

His toy soldier. The one he had finally jammed into the ashtray as a kid to avoid losing it as they moved from hotel room to hotel room.

"_Don't seem fair for you to have to do it all by yourself_." The old grounds keeper's voice drifted across Sam's memory. "_Maybe this little guy can help you out._"


	3. Chapter 3

**A/n: Okay, this is ¾ of Toy Soldier. Hope you enjoy it. **

**Reviews are love.**

**EverReader**

**Disclaimer: Not My Sandbox**

**SupernaturalSupernaturalSupernaturalSupernaturalSupernaturalSupernaturalSupernatural**

**September 1989**

"Monsters aren't real."

Sam repeated this fact over and over again,a mantra to keep the fear at bay. But even at six, his clever mind was frightfully good at putting together facts, at gathering evidence.

The salt was meant to keep something out. Something that frightened Dean. Something outside their window, something bad.

But what was even worse, the salt had obviously failed. Something had come through, something monstrous had come in, through their window in the night. Something so bad that even their father, who wasn't afraid of anything, had fled from it.

How did one fight a monster that could defeat fearless fathers, and outsmart heroic big brothers?

"Looking awfully serious there, Sam."

Chuck, the church's old groundskeeper settled with rheumatic care into the swing beside him.

Sam smiled sadly back at him. He liked Chuck, like that he took Sam seriously, that he respected Sam's with to be called Sam and not Sammy, liked that Chuck seemed to actually see _him, _Sam, instead of just "John's youngest boy" or "Dean's little brother."

Chuck made Sam feel like an equal, like a real person.

Which was why Sam was so reluctant to voice his fears. Normally Sam would go to Dean with his problems, or Pastor Jim. Sam already knew, however, that neither would actually talk to him about any of this.

Chuck had often demonstrated his willingness to sit and listen to Sam's chatter for hours, patiently nodding as he trimmed the rosebushes or mulched the flower beds. Chuck liked to listen, and Sam liked to talk, just as he liked learning the names of the flowers, and following the bumble bees through the garden. He liked the peace and the sunshine. He though perhaps that's what Pastor Jim meant when he talked about "Sanctuary".

He was afraid if he voiced his fears, that old Chuck wouldn't take him seriously, would, in fact, give him that dreaded look that meant that once again, Sam was being a "difficult child".

"It's hard to help a plant grow strong until you learn about it, what it needs, if it likes sun or shade, lot's of water or hardly any. Gardening's a mite trickier than most would believe." Chuck said casually, staring off into the distance.

Sam could see Dean, still over at the garage with the bike. He had narrowed his eyes once in their direction before apparently deciding that Chuck was not a threat, but Sam wasn't fooled. Dean was more anxious than a cat on a hot tin roof these days, and it was only a matter of minutes at best before he fetched Sam closer.

Deciding he had nothing to lose, he turned to Chuck, twisting so hard his swing's chains twined together, nearly tangling as the words spilled from his lips.

"I think there's a monster that lives outside our window. It follows us, and it can get past the magic salt, but no one will tell me what it is or what to do 'cause I'm to little."

A long moment passed before Chuck said "I can see how that would be a problem." Sam studied Chuck's face but found no censure, no sign of laughter.

"I don't know what kind it is, or what it looks like or what it wants, but Dean's scared, an that mean's it's bad. Really bad."

Chuck took his time before answering. "So you need something to keep you safe from a monster?"

Sam frowned, trying to marshal his thoughts. "Not just me. Dean too. Dean always takes care of me, keeps ME safe. But I'm only six. I don't know how to keep Dean safe. And Dad's always gone..." Sam ended sadly.

It didn't deem right that Dean had to be afraid to sleep every night just cause Sam was too little to help keep them safe.

"And I don't even know what kind of monster it is..." He repeated sadly. Sam was pretty sure that was an important detail. His dad always said the devil was in the details, so Sam figured the same probably went for monsters.

Chuck whistled out a long, thoughtful breath. "Well, it's been my experience that there are all kinds of monsters in the world. And you're right. You're just a little guy. Don't seem fair for you to have to have to do it all by yourself. I'd say you need something that protects against all kinds of monsters."

"Like a talisman?" Sam offered helpfully. He had run across that word in a book at school, and remembered it because he had heard his father say it once or twice also.

"Yup. Just like, I'd say." Chuck agreed affably.

"But where do I get something like that?" Sam asked miserably.

"Bout that..." Chuck stood slowing,back creaking and popping as it extended. He reached a wrinkled hand into his overalls. Pulling it out again, he handed the small object to Sam.

Sam studied it furiously for a moment before a crushing sense of disappointment overcame him.

"That's just an old plastic soldier." He pointed out, frowning as he tried to decide if Chuck was teasing him after all. "I have five just like it in my bag." He added as an after thought.

"Looks just like an ordinary one, you're right." Chuck said as he held it out to Sam once again. "But this one's special. It's lucky. You can feel it, it you give it a moment."

Reluctantly, Sam closed his fist around the little green man, displaying all the skepticism his six year body could muster.

Slowly, like sunlight breaking through fog, a smiled stretched itself across his face.

He couldn't describe it, but Chuck was right. This one felt..._different_. It made him think about hot chocolate and lucky charms and lazy Saturdays in bed snuggled against his big brother, warm and safe.

It felt like getting a "A" on his spelling test and a bulls-eye with his BB gun and his father's approval and the sound a Dean laughing. It felt happy, and strong.

**It felt like magic.**

"Where'd you get it?" He whispered, afraid to destroy the moment, looking up at Chuck in wonder.

"Found it." Chuck replied.

"Didn't know what I was supposed to do with it, until now. Just knew it was special. Way I figure..." He scratched his eyebrow thoughtfully. "Magic like that ought to be enough to help anyone fight off a monster. Maybe it won't do it all on it's own, you mind, but it could help you do what's needed when the time comes. And maybe it could take a couple night time shifts for your brother while he gets some shut-eye." Chuck grinned, white teeth brilliant against his tanned, whiskery face.

"What do I do with it?" Sam asked hope warring with relief in his chest. It made no sense, but somehow, he knew it was true just the same. The little soldier was _magic_.

"Put that on yer windowsill, just inside the salt. He'll help you, when the time comes. Keep him close, he won't fail you."

**SupernaturalSupernaturalSupernaturalSupernaturalSupernaturalSupernaturalSupernatural**

**April 2005**

Watching Dean die, watching as the Doctors and nurses scrambled around his big, strong, fearless older brother as he continued to flatline was the most excruciating thing Sam had ever experienced.

More painful than Jess's death, than learning the truth about monsters, about what happened to their mom.

He could almost hear Dean screaming at them, demanding that they get away. Unconsciously, he clenched his fist around the toy soldier in his pocket.

He didn't breath again until Dean did.

**SupernaturalSupernaturalSupernaturalSupernaturalSupernaturalSupernaturalSupernatural**

Dean stared at Sam, begging him to see him, to hear him. For just a moment, as he'd fought off the reaper, he thought Sam had sensed something. But now he watched as his brother stood silent at the foot of his bed, motionless, a frightening stillness that reminded Dean of the night Jess had died.

Sam looked...small. And unbearably young. Dean wished Sam and Dad could stop fighting long enough to work together. The two of them were so incredibly smart, they picked apart patterns and clues with a breathtaking ease that sometimes left Dean feeling like he had been left at the side of the road. Together they could surely figure this all out.

But Dad was acting shifty, even Dean could see it. He was lying to Sam, that much was certain. Lying about the demon, about the demon's plans for Sam, maybe lying about all of it.

And Sam knew. Though to his credit, the only time he called him out on it was when Sam judged that John wasn't focused on Dean the way he should.

Dean was touched by how protective Sam was of him, how fiercely he fought for Dean while Dean could not. Not once had Sam talked about his own injuries, though from his limp and the way he caught his breath occasionally, Dean was guessing a bad knee and at least a couple of bruised ribs. And the swelling around his eye screamed concussion.

John had never even asked, and as worried as Dean was for himself at that moment, the part of him that was Sam's big brother kept flaring up, wanting to insist that Sam sit down, take some pain meds. Wanted to take a look at Sam's charts and get an idea of the the total damage. That was Dean's job, after all. John had opted out of most of that a long time ago.

But he couldn't do anything. Not for Sam, of their father or even himself.

He was alone.

"I have an idea, Dean." Sam whispered the words so softly Dean had to strain forward to catch them.

"I'm getting a little desperate here. I have to go get something, but I'm scared to leave. Afraid you'll be.." Sam paused, swallowing. "I need you to stick around a little longer, ok?"

Sam gently touched Dean's foot on the bed, and Dean watched his brother, looking at him in a way he hadn't been able to in such a long time.

Jessica, their father, Stanford, so much static had come between them. Dean was terrified he wouldn't get another chance to talk to his brother. If he died, Sam and his father wouldn't be able to come together, John would go off in an ever more violent spiral of revenge and violence.

Sam would be left alone to deal with whatever that yellow-eyed bastard had in store for him.

"Is this my fault?" He heard Sam whisper brokenly, a single tear running down his cheek. "If I had taken that shot..." He trailed off, staring at the machines breathing for his brother.

"No, Sammy, no, don't you do that!" Dean argued, desperate to be heard. In that moment he could have happily broken his father's jaw for even suggesting to Sam that this was his fault. Sam had chosen family and it was the only thing Dean had ever wanted from him.

He watched as Sam wandered to the window, shoulders hunched, like he was just waiting for the next blow.

"I'm gonna beat this, Sammy, just you wait and see. I'm not leaving you alone to deal with Yellow Eyes."

But Dean was worried he was going to have no choice but to do just that.

He watched Sam walk out of the room, head ducked down, probably still crying.

"Sammy..." He whispered brokenly. He wondered when the reaper would return, and if he could fight it off again.

Something on his windowsill caught his eye, and he walked over to it. His heart warmed at the sight of Sam's little toy soldier in the window, memories of Sam's childish assurances washing over him.

"_It'll keep the monsters out, Dean. Just keep it close. You don't have to do it all on your own now. He'll help you. We just have to put him in the window, and then the monsters can't get back in."_

Sam had left it in the Impala, when he left for Stanford. Dean had chalked it up to faith lost in translation as Sam grew older.

Now for the first time, he wondered if maybe Sam had left it to watch over Dean in Sam's absence.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: And...Here is the end to Confessions of a Toy Soldier. Sorry it took a little longer than I would like. I was in a car accident, attacked by a yellow jacket, and then my son came down with a vicious screaming ear infection. As you can see later on in this chapter, I shared my pain with poor Dean and John. Sick screaming kids are the worst! But, finally a day off, and no asteroids have hit me, so here I am.**

**Just to clarify, these flash backs are from Dean's point of view, save the very last one which I believe is called third person omniscient? Anyway, time wise, we have a few weeks following the boys childhood sthriga attack, followed immediately by the night after the boys take on the zombie in CSPWTD. The very last segment hopefully is self explanatory.**

**I had fun with this one. Some brotherly fluff, because, damn it, _ I can_, and I personally needed it.**

**Hope everyone enjoys. Feel free to check my latest project, Prisoner of War. Second chapter should go up tonight or tomorrow. It's AU and quite different from my other work so far.**

**Reviews are Love,**

**As Always,**

_**EverReader**_

**Disclaimer: No-no-no, not my sandbox. Blah blah.**

**November, 1989**

"We have to go back!" Sam wailed from the safety of Dean's circled arms as the boys sat in the backseat of the Impala.

Dean met his father's eyes in the rear view mirror, green eyes beseeching.

It had been ten miles since the six-year old had realized the little toy had been left in the hotel room when they checked out.

Ten very _long_ miles.

Dean had tried everything. Shrugging it of. Offering to buy Sam another one. Offering to buy Sammy _two_ more. Offering to get Sam _one hundred_ more (at this point, if Dad wasn't willing to fork out the money, Dean would happily steal the little bastards for Sammy.)

All to no avail, however. It had to be _that one_.

"Sammy, you've been warned about taking your toys out in hotel rooms when we are only staying one night." John replied gruffly, knuckles white on the steering wheel.

"Are you hungry Sammy, I got some Oreos, I'll share them." Dean offered desperately.

The volume of the wailing increased.

"I'll give them all to you?" Dean was begging, and he didn't even care.

Sammy's crying only intensified still more.

Dean wasn't sure he'd ever actually seen Sammy this upset about anything before. He'd made plenty of bottles for Sammy when he was little, changed diapers whenever an infant Sammy had started to crying.

But this wasn't like that. Sammy wasn't mad, or hurt or sad. He sounded terrified and had started bordering on hysteria. The only time Dean could ever remember being even close to this bad was the time when a two-year old Sammy had woken up in the middle of the night with a raging ear infection. He'd never had one before, and his fear and confusion at the raging pain inside his own head had nearly been worse than the pain itself.

Still the screaming continued, Sammy's face was red and swollen and Dean was starting to be afraid Sammy was going to make himself sick.

"Dad..." Dean spoke the words aloud before he even realized it. He knew their father had caught another hunt, that they had to make good time. He wished like anything that stupid old gardener had never given that damn soldier to his little brother in the first place.

"He'll cry himself out, just give him a moment." John's voice brokered no argument.

Another two miles passed, and Sammy continued to scream, siren-like, gasping screams that made Dean want to claw his eyes out, screams that lit every big brother nerve ending up like the fourth of July. Within another mile, Sammy was breathless between screams, arms and legs flailing as he refused to give up the battle even though now he was coughing as much as he was crying.

"Dad!" Dean said again, more urgently as one cough turned into another and another and suddenly Sammy wasn't struggling just to scream, he was struggling to _breathe_.

"Sammy, just breath, okay, you just gotta breathe!" Dean cried, fully panicked himself now. "Dad, he can't catch his breath! Sammy, breathe already!"

John wrenched the Impala to the side of the road, impatience warring with fear on his face. In just seconds he had gotten out of the car and opened the rear door of the Impala.

Dean suddenly found himself with empty arms as he scrambled across the bench seat into the late morning sunlight. John was crouched at the side of the road next to the car, more than half holding up Dean's little brother as Sammy's eyes roamed wildly, neither settling on anything or seeing anything.

John shook him a little, trying to get him to focus, to settle down, but Sam continued to try to scream, leading to even more coughing. His lips had gained a blue tinge that Dean hadn't seen since the Sthriga had climbed through their window all those weeks ago.

"Sammy!" John's voice had gained it's own edge of desperation, but Sammy couldn't replied, couldn't scream, couldn't cough, couldn't breathe-

Viper-quick, John slapped his flattened palm into Sam's cheek, hard enough to rock Sam's head back.

The three of them froze shock, the only sound Sammy's ragged breathing as he slowly, painfully started to gain his breathe.

John was crouched, horrified, looking at his hand like it had a life of his own, and it was Dean who caught Sammy when he crumpled.

"Sammy, Sammy, you okay?" Dean's words were tripping over themselves, they tumbled so fast from his lips. Sure, Dad had spanked them in the past, but he'd never _hit_ either one of them before.

Sammy wasn't doing anything, just staring over John's shoulder, as if he could will himself to grow wings and fly back to the little plastic soldier, that magic talisman that could keep the monsters away.

'Sammy..." John spoke the word halting, reaching his hand out jerkily, as if trying to pet a wild animal. Sammy stayed motionless, for all the world as disengaged from everything around him as if he were asleep with his eyes open. Silent tears were running down his cheeks, the left of which was showing the red imprint of John's palm, but Sammy took no notice, mind firmly elsewhere.

It was Dean who flinched back, hard enough to pull both boys out of John's reach, as he and his father had a broken, bewildered staring match over the youngster's head.

Dean knew John was sorry, could see it all over John's face, but still, Dean found his muscles tense, coiled as if to spring into action, carry his little brother _away_, away from all of this and he had no idea what to do.

"_It's magic, Dean. It'll keep us safe from the monsters._" Sammy"s voice was only in Dean's head, the real Sammy still and silent in his arms.

Maybe Sam needed that soldier more than Dean had realized.

Maybe they all did.

John seemed to read his oldest son's thoughts as they crossed his face, for he let out a long, shuddering breathe.

"Okay. Yeah..." He scrubbed a weary hand across his shell-shocked face. "Okay. Let's get you two back in the car..." He reached out a hand, tentatively placing it on Dean's shoulders, and Dean allowed it.

But Dean carried Sammy back to the car.

**SupernaturalSupernaturalSupernaturalSupernaturalSupernaturalSupernaturalSupernaturalSupernatura**l

That night, Dean lay in the back seat of the Impala, head cushioned on his father's leather jacket as he held is little brother close in his arms.

Sam didn't speak, didn't wriggle, just stared over Dean's shoulder's at the stars, still flying fast and far away in his six-year old mind.

The little plastic soldier was clasped loosely in his hand, but though Sammy wouldn't let go of it, he wouldn't acknowledge it either.

Dean shifted again, restlessly. He could hear their father's gentle snores from the front seat. They'd lost time going back for the soldier, and John had pushed hard to make it up, which is why they were now asleep on a gravel road instead of in a motel room.

"Sammy?" Dean whispered finally, needing to hear his brother's voice. He didn't know what he had expected, when they had gone back for Sammy's soldier, but whatever it was, he hadn't gotten it. Sam hadn't laughed, or said thanks. He hadn't even smiled. He'd just looked at Dean and John sadly, before seeming to sink either further into himself.

John had been reluctant to push, guilty and silent in the front seat.

Now, as Dean lay under the stars, he could feel the silent tears on his arm as his brother took up his soundless weeping once again.

"Don't cry, Sammy. It'll be okay. Dad went back and got it, it's right here. Nothing bad's gonna happen."

Sam shuddered, a small whimper breaking loose as he turned to hide deeper in Dean's chest. Dean's arms tightened instinctively around his brother as he felt his own heart fracture a little more.

"Talk to me, Sammy. Tell me what's wrong..." He begged quietly, afraid to raise his voice and wake their father.

Sammy sniffled and burrowed still deeper, until Dean began to worry whether or not he could breathe like that. Slowly, gently he eased Sammy away from him, until they were far apart enough for Dean to see Sammy's tear-streaked face. "Sammy." He urged, his voice already taking on the commanding tone he would use as an adult. "Tell me what to do to fix it."

Sammy just sniffled and shook he head.

"Can't." He whispered, voice choked and small. "Broken."

"What's broken?" Dean asked, relief swimming through his veins that Sammy was at least talking, if only a little.

"Is your soldier broken?" Dean asked.

Broken, that Dean could take care of. Dean was good at fixing things, Dean was _excellent_ at fixing things. If Dean could build Sammy a bike, then he sure as hell could fix a toy soldier, if that's what Sammy needed.

Dean would fix whatever it took, if that was what Sammy needed.

"Not that kind of broken." Sammy said reluctantly, opening his hand in a patch of moonlight to display the unharmed toy.

"Then what do you mean?" Dean asked, unease fighting with disappointment inside him. It would've have been nice for it to have been something easy, something concrete that he could have fixed.

"The magic's broken." Sammy finally admitted. "You and Dad, you don't believe. I don't think it can work if you don't believe. I'm not enough" Sam's voice had grown even smaller as he seemed to shrink inside of Dean's arms.

"Hey!" Dean shook Sammy, just a little. "You're enough, you got that? You're enough for me and enough for Dad and you're sure as hell enough for that little plastic soldier." He searched Sammy's face for some sign that he was getting through to him.

Sammy watched Dean warily. "You really think so?" Sammy asked finally.

"Course I do." Dean replied, no shred of doubt in his voice. After all, Dean might not believe in magic plastic soldiers, but if anyone in the universe was good enough to make one magic, it was his little brother.

"You've always been enough. And anyway, you're not alone. I believe in it too." he finished.

Sammy narrowed his eyes. "No, you don't." Sammy asserted.

"Sure I do." Dean sat up, bringing his little brother with him.

"Look, what did that old gardener say to do again?" He asked as if he hadn't been helping Sammy carefully place the toy in their windowsill every night for weeks now.

"He said to put it in our bedroom window." Sammy answered.

"But we don't have a bedroom window tonight Dean. Don't even have a bed." He looked around the backseat helplessly, tears starting to gather at the corners of his eyes again.

Dean wasn't having anymore tears, though, so his mind raced for a way to shut down his overtired and emotionally wrung out little brother ASAP.

"Here." He said, gesturing to the door he had been leaning against. He flipped open the ashtray. John didn't smoke, and the inside was as spotless as the rest of John's prized car. "We sleep in the car more than anywhere else anyway. This IS our bedroom Sammy."

Sammy smiled, the slow one that broke across his entire face and lit up their entire hemisphere of the planet whenever it made it's appearance. "Think so?"

"Know so. I'm the big brother. I'm always right." Dean asserted.

Sammy's smile widened, if possible, hitching up a little higher in one corner, a funny, crooked smile that was tattooed across Dean's heart and soul and wherever else that truly mattered.

He leaned over Dean's lap to stick the soldier into the ashtray.

They settled back down, Sammy pillowed on Dean's shoulder, Dean pillowed on John's jacket.

"You know Dean..." Sammy's voice was content now, heavy and laced with sleep.

"Hmmmm?" Dean replied, already halfway gone himself.

"Keeps you safe too, Dean. Helps me protect you form the monster's too." Sammy finished, falling asleep even as the words left his lips.

Dean pulled his brother tighter. "You've always been enough for me, Sammy."

**SupernaturalSupernaturalSupernaturalSupernaturalSupernaturalSupernaturalSupernaturalSupernatura**l

**June, 2005**

Dean sat in the clinic waiting room while the Doctor set Sam's broken hand. Normally he'd have gone along in the room with Sam, not because Sam needed him too, but because it was Dean's job to make sure the Doctor did _his_ job right.

The roadside confession an hour ago had drained him, however, so he simply sat in the hard plastic waiting room chair as they treated his brother.

"Sam Guerin?" Dean's head jerked up at the sound of the fake name he had used for Sam at check in. He hadn't had the time or emotional resources yet to get new fake insurance for him and Sam, so the name hadn't mattered too much, as he was shelling out cash for Sammy's newest accessory.

"S'my brother." Dean replied tersely, gaining his feet. "He ready to roll?" He added, looking around the portly Doctor for his brother (as if someone Sam's size could hide behind a man of the Doctor's meager height).

"Not quite." The Doctor replied. "I'm Doctor Bender. Sam's arm has been set, thankfully there was no need for pins or surgery." Doctor Bender said, watching Dean thoughtfully. "Though I might add that it appears to be either the second or third break for that arm."

Dean frowned at the Doctor's fishing. "Kids always been clumsy." He replied easily enough, with a practiced shrug.

"Hmm mm. I suppose that would also explain the broken ribs, the wrenched knee, and the fading signs of a fairly recently concussion?"

"What the hell are you talking about?" Dean barked, eyes widening as he got up in the Doctor's space. Deciding he needed to see his brother for himself, he started to move around the Doctor, only to be stopped by a very brave hand on his arm.

"Please allow my nurse to do her job, Mr. Guerin." A thread of steel laced the congenial-looking Doctor's voice, and Dean's eyes flashed back to the small man in front of him, quickly re-evaluating his earlier impressions.

"None of the other injuries appear to be from the past day or two, as his arm obviously is. But they're not more than a few weeks old, at the most. And your brother obviously didn't get the follow-up care he should have. The knee's doing well, from what I can tell, though it's an imprecise science at best without an MRI. And his pupil response is normal, though he mentioned something about headaches. If those continue, he should see a specialist, preferably a neurologist. He mentioned having migraines on and off for several years now, so I went ahead a wrote him a refill for a migraine prescription. It doesn't exactly have street value, so I see no reason not too. However, if they continue or increase, he will need proper care."

Dean flinched a little as the Doctor continued. "His ribs are what I am most concerned with. He had green stick fractures along three of them at some point, but whoever treated him obviously didn't give him a sufficient prescription for the pain, or else he simply didn't take it."

"What are you saying?" Dean bit out, defensive at the Doctor's carefully worded explanations.

"People with bruised and broken ribs tend to breath shallowly, to avoid the pain. Sometimes this causes no problems, but sometimes this type shallow breathing can lead to respiratory illness."

"Pneumonia." Dean interrupted incredulously. Sure, Sam had been looking kind of done in lately, but so had Dean, with their constant hunts and the still too large grief over their father. But Dean was pretty sure he would have noticed injuries like what the Doctor was talking about. Would have noticed broken ribs and concussions and _pneumonia for Christ's sake._

The Doctor hesitated. "Pre-pneumonia, still in the very early stages. Just starting to settle in I'd say. He's running a low grade fever, and I almost wrote it off as a re-action to the broken arm. I didn't like the sound of his breathing though, so I threw in a chest x-ray while we were looking at his arm. I've already given him a shot of penicillin, and wrote a script for more of that also, you'll need to make sure he takes it or things could get ugly quickly."

Dean scrubbed his face. When the hell had Sam gotten so badly hurt? How could Dean not have noticed. It wasn't the zombie, or the Rakasha, or the vamps. Had Gordon hurt Sam worse than Dean had realized? Or-

Suddenly everything clicked in Dean's brain and he felt his knees give. From a distance he felt the Doctors hands guide him into a waiting room chair as he leaned forward to combat his rising nausea.

The accident. The car accident. THE car accident.

Dean had gotten the miracle wonder treatment through whatever dark mojo dad had worked, but Sam had been left to heal on his own.

He was already up on his feet, had been on his feet for days by the time Dean had even been conscious. He'd been the one to get the Impala taken care of, gotten the Ouija board, dealt with their father and Bobby.

And even before the wreck, the yellow-eyed demon had thrown Sam about. His so-called son had gone a few rounds with Sam just a few hours before that back in Jefferson City. Dean had asked him, at the hospital, wincing at the bruises on Sam's face. Sam had shrugged it off, saying the ER had cleared him days ago. Dean had meant to press further, big brother instincts lighting up like Christmas, but then their Dad died, and Dean had been lost.

Lost in the pain and regret and guilt. Their Dad had died for him, Dean was sure of it, but not before he had entrusted Dean with a horrible secret.

"_Watch out for Sammy. You have to save him Dean. You have to save him, or you're gonna have to kill him._"

And wasn't that the kicker, kill Sam-kill Sammy-_his Sammy-_the brother he had spent his entire life protecting, kill _Sammy_-

"Mr. Guerin" The Doctor's voice jolted Dean out of his rambling thoughts and he stood, pacing to put some space between him and Doctor's all too-seeing eyes.

"Uh, yeah, yeah. No, I got it. There, um..was an accident. About five weeks ago. Sammy was in an accident. A car accident." Dean's voice trailed off.

"Were you injured? Do you need follow up attention also?" The Doctor's voice had softened, kindness showing through now that his patient's injuries were being more satisfactorily explained.

"Me?" Dean laughed humorously. "Nah, I wasn't there." Because he hadn't been, not really. Sam had had to protect him and their father from the demon in the truck, and later at the hospital. Sam had obviously pushed through his own injuries, triaged himself in order to care for his wounded parent and sibling.

"But, uh, my Dad was killed. He...uh, died right about the time I got there. Sammy was already on his feet by then. Little shit said he was fine, and I...uh, haven't been on my "A" game exactly, since then.

And Dean had been so caught up in his secrets and guilt that he hadn't even seen the physical pain his brother must have been in, not to mention the emotional pain of losing Dad less than a year after Jess.

Dean had been so wrecked by the whole event, sometimes he could barely look Sam in the eye without hearing his father's voice echo in his mind (_save Sammy kill Sammy watch out for Sammy_).

The Doctor watched him compassionately. "Losing a parent is hard." He stood up. "You will not, however, be losing a brother anytime soon. At least, not if we get him a slighter better standard of care than he's been receiving, anyway. Do you think you're up to the challenge?"

"You have no idea." Dean agreed, voice gone hard with the strength of his assertion. "I'm not losing anyone else."

**SupernaturalSupernaturalSupernaturalSupernaturalSupernaturalSupernaturalSupernaturalSupernatura**l

Dean sat in the darkened motel room, watching his brother sleep.

Sam was sprawled out, lost in the sea of pillows Dean had insisted in, propping up his knee, his chest and his newly casted arm.

Dean had been sitting for the last few hours, watching the rise and fall of his brothers chest, finding his own breathing coming into sync with Sam. Finally, Sam started to stir, and Dean stood up. He'd been waiting for his cue, the pain medicine he'd forced down Sam's throat at dinner time had been due to wear off anytime now.

"Sammy..." He called in his best low, comforting big brother voice.

"D'n" Sam mumbled, less than half awake at best. "S'time's it?"

"Time for more of the good stuff." Dean replied, going over to Sam's duffel. He'd tossed the pill bottle in there earlier in the evening when he'd been picking up, and now naturally it was proving difficult to find. He sighed in frustration, hopes of getting more medicine into his brother without having him fully wake up or go back to sleep again dissipating.

Alerted by his brother's tone, Sam sat up, blearily searching the room for his brother.

"Here we go." Dean extracted his hand from Sam's duffel, victoriously displaying the pill bottle. The smile faded from his face when he saw what else he had grabbed from Sam's bag.

"Dean?" Sam mumbled again, more clearly this time, but Dean didn't answer.

Alarm banishing the last of sleep from Sam's brain, he started to get up from his nest of pillows when he was stopped by his brother's words, an odd tone in voice.

"I though I lost it." Dean said, staring down at the small green soldier in his hand. "I pulled it out, on accident, right before-well. And, um" He swallowed raggedly. "Anyway, I looked all over the Impala when I was rebuilding her."

"Dean..." Sam's voice trailed off but Dean didn't seem take any notice.

"He was gone. He was just...gone". Dean sat bonelessly down on his bed, just staring at the the toy. He didn't even react when Sam finally managed to sit up, the beds so close their knees practically touched.

"You had him the whole time?" Dean asked finally, raising tear bright eyes to Sam.

It was Sam's turn to search for his voice.

"I found him, when Bobby and I went to the salvage yard. You were in the hospital, man, you, you wouldn't wake up..." He paused and then continued, "And something was hunting you,and I couldn't help you...I just..." He shrugged, seemingly lost for words.

"I didn't have anything else to give." He shrugged a wounded little half shrug. "So I put it in your window at the hospital. When we left, I grabbed it up, put it in my duffel."

"You never said anything." Dean said lowly, staring at his brother's face.

"You haven't exactly been in the mood for acts of faith lately." Sam replied sadly.

"Yeah." Dean agreed. "Yeah." He stood up suddenly and strode over to their motel door, wrenching it open.

"Dean?" Caught of guard, Sam struggled to make his sleep-loosened limbs obey his brain, but the traces of pain killers left in his system hindered his progress. As he was finally gaining his feet he heard the slam of the Impala's door.

"Dean?" he cried, now panicked. "Dean?"

"What? Sammy—What the hell are you doing, Sasquatch? Get your ass back in bed" Dean strode back in as if he'd only been checking the mail.

"What-what? I thought..." Sam's brain stuttered, came to a halt as Dean half helped, half forced him back into bed, preemptively moving Sam's various limbs to his satisfaction.

A few seconds later he stood, surveying Sammy's position one final time. Grabbing the pills and a bottle of water of his bed he handed them over to Sam with a firm command. "Now. No arguing. Full dose, then back to sleep. We gotta move on in the morning, and those antibiotics the Doc gave you won't work if you don't get enough sleep."

Sam swallowed the pills obediently before questioning one last time. "Dean?"

Dean's hand s and voice both softened as they pulled the blanket over his younger brother.

"He's back where he belongs Sammy. Now go to sleep."

Sam held Dean's gaze for a long time, as if searching for something in Dean's eyes he didn't really expect to find.

Slowly, oh so slowly a small smile crept across his face. "Yeah, Dean. You got it."

He settled back into the pillows, and within minutes the pain relievers had lulled Dean's baby brother back so sleep.

'Big brother's back now, Sammy', Dean thought to himself as he finally allowed his own eyes to drift closed. 'Not gonna leave you alone anymore'.

**SupernaturalSupernaturalSupernaturalSupernaturalSupernaturalSupernaturalSupernaturalSupernatura**l

**May 2009**

Nearly two decades after being attacked by a Shtriga at the tender age of six, Sam Winchester would meet a man, an author.

Whenever he would lay eyes on this man, he would be haunted by a sense of...recognition.

Things were starting to move quickly, however, and Sam Winchester did not have time to chase phantom memories.

It seemed more and more likely that Sam would have to try to defeat the devil, that it would, in fact, be up to him, alone, bereft of any succor, any aid.

The Demons were winning, the angels were the enemy, and God had apparently left the building.

Bobby, Cas and even his brother had given up hope. Only Sam was left at the table, the last piece on the board.

It was endgame, and Sam was left with one last desperate play.

It was the only thing he had left to give.

Sam Winchester wasn't a fool, though.

Stories like this do not have happy endings.

Stories like this end bloody.

But in the very last chapter, on the very last page, Dean Winchester remembered something very important. He remembered a promise he had made, with a thousand words and deeds and thoughts.

Stitched together with blood red thread and salt lines; with hot black coffee and cold star-filled nights.

Born from fire and a desperate, determined love, came one truth.

He was Sam Winchester's big brother.

It was not a matter of hope, or faith. It was neither a choice or a decision.

It was a fact. Like gravity, like daybreak, like the tide and the burning of the Sun.

There was one certainty in Dean Winchester's life.

He was Sam's big brother.

If Sam was hurt or scared, lost or alone; if Sam needed his big brother, then no force in the universe could stop Dean Winchester from finding his baby brother.

If it all ended bloody, then so be it.

He would not leave Sam to face the monster alone.

And Sam discovered that, perhaps, in the end, it had never really been about saving the world.

That all the angels and all the demons had gotten it wrong. Sam was neither the boy king, or the boy born to break the world.

Everyone had forgotten one crucial fact, one incredibly important detail.

He was just Sam Winchester.

"_You and me, We're all that's left_."

For Sam, it had always been about keeping a promise he himself had also made years ago...

"_I don't want ten years. I don't one one year. I don't want candy!"_

When Lucifer had bound his mind and body and will so tightly that no other part of him lingered...

"_I'm not going to let you die, period."_

It was about saving the person who had always saved him...

"_He's my brother."_

And in that endeavor, perhaps, you might say Sam had a little help.

Sometimes there's a plot twist. Sometimes there's a sequel. Sometimes you think a story is ending, and it's really just beginning. That's the thing about stories. They change with the telling. What I write and you read might very well be two different things. A toy can become a talisman. A villain can become a hero. An entire story can turn out to be nothing more than a chapter in a much larger book.

You don't really know what will happen until you turn the page.


End file.
